Archive for free read

Since I’m currently working on some erotica set during World War One, I’ve gone back to my research materials.
The photo above reminded me of one of my favorite scenes in The Moonlight Mistress. It was a scene I didn’t realize I was going to have until I got to that point and started writing.

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Lucilla watched Kauz’ housekeeper finish with the laundry, pick up a basket, and go inside by a rear door, letting it slam behind her.

Lucilla stared at the motor, thinking.

Pascal emerged. He did not turn towards the side garden, but walked quickly towards her, his shoulders rigid. He ducked behind the tree’s trunk and swore.

“Stay calm,” Lucilla said. She picked up her bag and handed him his rucksack. “The servant went inside. We’ll walk to the motor now. There’s no crank, it must have a self-starter.”

“He refused.”

“Then we commandeer his vehicle. Isn’t that the word? You know how to start the engine, don’t you? I can do it, if you don’t know how.”

Pascal only hesitated a moment before seizing her arm and walking back towards Kauz’ home. The motor was parked in the garden.

“Not too quickly,” Lucilla murmured. “We must behave as if we have every right.”

“He will hear the engine.”

“There’s a clear path from his garden to the street. We must be quick. Do you know where he is, in the house?”

“He returned to his library.”

Laughter gurgled in the upper region of Lucilla’s chest as she ducked beneath damp shirt-tails, fluttering in the summer breeze. Pascal pushed his way through a sheet. She would never have dared this on her own, would never have entertained such desperate measures had the night not changed her entire idea of herself. She would never have imagined that stealing a motor could be such a thrill.

She laid her carpetbag gently in the rumble seat, took Pascal’s rucksack, and laid it in as well. Pascal quietly opened the door; he fiddled with the spark and throttle levers while she arranged herself to block him from view and kept a wary eye out. He looked at her beneath his arm. “When the engine catches, be ready. You must drive.”

Lucilla nodded and gathered her skirts into her hands. The engine roared and Pascal threw himself onto the seat, sliding across. She followed, remembering to release the hand brake before she slammed the door and sent the motor into high gear. She hadn’t driven in over a year. “It’s like cycling,” she said to herself, turning onto the street. Behind them, she heard slamming doors and shouting. She gave the motor more petrol, and soon the shouting faded. It was satisfying to drive faster than Kauz could run. She hoped he’d seen her. He could add thief to whore, she thought with savage glee.

Maxime heard the ship’s bell ring two quarter hours before the cabin’s door opened again. The cabin girl, Norris, poked her head in, then slid around the door and shut it behind her, reaching for a basket on the deck. When she saw Maxime, she stopped and looked at him incredulously.

“You’ll have to ask her about untying it, then.” Norris grinned and slipped out again, this time with the basket.

Maxime cursed, but without much vigor. He returned to trying to lift his feet. The deck braces to which he was hitched showed no hint of movement and the sturdy decking didn’t even creak, no matter how hard he pulled. The knots on his wrists, he’d quickly learned, drew tighter if he struggled, and there was no accessible end for him to attack with his teeth.

“Being kidnapped,” he said, “is much more dull than I would have expected.” Perhaps things would improve once the ravishing began. If it began. He was beginning to have his doubts.

I’ve put a new, downloadable free read up on my website. It’s my first published story from December 2000, lesbian erotica titled “Water Music.”You can download it here.

When I participated in a reading for this anthology, at Bluestockings in New York City, not only did I meet other writers whom I still correspond with today, I was also privileged to see my story interpreted in American Sign Language. The interpreter told me she’d spent the day practicing the stories in a coffee shop, hoping desperately all the while that no one sitting nearby could understand what she was saying.

Captain Imena Leung did her best to appear bored. The royal cutter’s first officer examined the papers she had handed over to the inspecting officer.

Chetri stood at her side, chewing mastic, hands clasped behind his back. He looked casual but was ready, she knew, to draw his knife at a moment’s notice. Several of her crew handled inconsequential tasks within easy distance; she’d been careful to order most of the younger sailors to stay below on the lower cargo deck. At the first sign of trouble, the cutter’s first officer and his boat crew would become hostages. If worst came to worst, she might also claim diplomatic immunity; anything to gain time.

She might also accidentally knock the officer down, for looking at her as if he’d like to pay for her services. A knife pressed to his genitals might give him more respect for women.

The officer peeled off the second sheet and returned it to her. Imena slid the page into its case. “As you can see, we’re in the employ of the Duke Maxime.”

“You were scheduled to remain in port for another week. Why did you depart early? Without a full cargo?”

He wasn’t looking at her face, but at her bosom, despite its being bound into a bodice and concealed beneath a loose shirt. She was careful to show no hint of emotion as she said, “Personal matters.”

“Personal matters that caused you to recall your crew from shore leave and vanish from the docks in the wee hours of the morning?”

“I wanted to catch the tide,” she said blandly. “Are we finished here?”

“I’m curious as to the nature of these personal matters.” He glanced up at her face, now, and smiled. He was a young man with bright teeth, symmetrical features, and glossy hair. He wouldn’t be used to being refused.

“You will remain curious, then,” she said. “Chetri, will you escort the officer to his boat? I need to speak with Bonnevie.” She turned toward the wheelhouse.

Chetri’s blade whistled from its sheath, and he spat the mastic gum at the man’s feet. Imena blocked his arm without breaking the officer’s gaze. She heard movement, then settling, as the sailors realized there would be no fighting. “I was a privateer, in the service of my government.”

“It’s all the same to us. We’ve been keeping an eye on you.”

“Have you.” She pushed on Chetri’s arm until it lowered and he stepped back to sheathe his blade. “Unless you are accusing me of piracy now, you will leave my ship.”

Perhaps an hour later, Camille heard hooves approaching, a horse at a gallop. She ran to the doorway, bridle in one hand and cleaning cloth in the other, determined to see. From a distance it was clear there was no danger; Henri rode Rhubarb, bareback, jumping him over a small bush here and some plant clippings there, letting the stallion burn off some of his energy. Camille found herself smiling. His seat was not just secure, but a thing of beauty.He saw her from across the paddock and cantered up to the barn door, grinning hugely. He had no idea, Camille knew, how lovely his smile was; he had no trace of vanity. After knowing so many preening courtiers, she felt this was one of his most attractive traits.“Your Grace,” he said. “He’s glorious! Would you like to ride him? He’s well-mannered.” He flushed. “Oh. He’s really yours, you can ride him whenever you wish.”

Camille hung the bridle and cloth on a hook, and picked up the man’s hat Sylvie had given her as a disguise. With that and her loose jacket, from a distance she ought to be safe from curious eyes. She now knew she’d hear another horse’s approach, and any guards would come in a group. After quickly covering her hair and pulling on her gloves, she walked into the yard. The mares and gelding were far across the pasture, too far to go to just now. She would visit with them later. Now, she would ride. Her heart beat faster with excitement. “Give me a hand up.”Henri gingerly held out one hand and extended his foot, to give her a step. He blushed furiously. Camille hoisted her habit’s skirt in one hand and in a few moments was astride a horse, for the first time in four years.

She gloried in the minute shifts of muscle beneath her, in the hum of living power along the stallion’s skin. The aroma of horse rose up around her. Laughing aloud, she clasped her arms firmly around Henri’s slender waist. She could feel his muscles shifting, too. His smell reminded her of mulled wine. “Glorious!” she agreed.

Moonlight Mistress is from Harlequin Spice. In this scene, three soldiers are causing a distraction at one site while a more secret operation happens at another. Note there’s been a change to this excerpt to protect a plot detail.

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It would have been better to have grenades thrown from all directions, but it hadn’t been practical with only the three of them. Meyer had insisted that one of them be armed with a more accurate and long-range weapon, much as the infantry were protected by artillery. Of them all, he was the best shot with a rifle, though he wasn’t as good as Southey or anywhere near as good as Mason, back at the regiment. Hailey reminded himself that accuracy like Mason’s or even Southey’s wasn’t required here. All Meyer had to do was plug someone until he couldn’t attack any more. Even the worst shot in the regiment could usually manage that.

Meyer interrupted his thoughts. “Be careful. Both of you.”

Daglish said, “I for one don’t intend to be killed. Hailey, you ready?”

“Yes,” he said.

After that it was the usual sort of running and dodging and flinging oneself into cover, except the sniper gear was uncomfortable and one had to do everything more carefully because of the grenades; and normally, Hailey wouldn’t be given grenades, even jam tins, because his job was to carry messages. In front of Meyer, he’d pretended he didn’t mind, but in truth the grenades made his nervous enough that his palms were sweating inside his gloves.

Daglish had taken platoons out on raids, so he knew what he was about. When they reached the stand of trees that was their midpoint, he settled in among the leaf litter and silently began to lay out his grenades in an arc around his feet. Hailey did the same, then slipped the lit pipe from its loop on his webbing. He could still see a red-orange glow within the pipe’s bowl. He stirred up the embers just a bit with a stick and murmured, “Ready.”

Daglish rose slowly, stretching his arm and rotating it to make sure his sleeves–uniform beneath, sniper tunic above–wouldn’t catch and land a grenade on top of them. He scooped up a tin in each gloved hand and held them out to Hailey, who held the pipe bowl to the fuses until they caught. Together, they counted, then Daglish threw, strong clean arcs that nearly made Hailey whistle in admiration.

Daglish had easily cleared the tall fence. Hailey counted another second, then two explosions ripped the air, one after the other. Sound rushed in, and he realized he hadn’t been breathing, but he was already lighting the next grenade, holding the fuse steady in the bowl of the pipe until sparks crackled, slowly eating their way up the fuse, towards the tight-packed gun cotton. The explosion would fling free the nails and other bits of metal rubbish they’d packed into the tin. The sharp odor of gunpowder singed his nostrils, or was it smoke from the laboratory compound? He held the grenade up to Daglish without looking at him, shook burning ash off his leather glove, then began to light the next fuse.

Daglish had thrown perhaps half the grenades before Hailey heard the gate rattle open and rifle shots popping. “Run?” he asked. He risked a glance; three guards had ventured out, staying close to the fence.

“Two more,” Daglish said, heaving the grenade he held. It landed on a roof, and the resulting explosion resulted in a tower of flame as dry wood caught fire. He hissed with satisfaction as the flame leapt to another roof, which caught fire with a roar.

Moonlight Mistress is out NOW from Harlequin Spice. In this scene, Hailey is carrying a message to Meyer and Daglish, who are on leave in Paris. Note there’s been a change to this excerpt to protect a plot detail.

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The road to Paris was in awful shape. Hailey clung desperately to the zouave piloting the motorbike and tried to ignore the fragments of cold mud whipping his cheek and splatting on his goggles. Periodically, the rear wheel would skid in a puddle and the bike would be knocked askew, sometimes careening far enough to one side that the zouave’s boot would scrape through mud; he would shout in French, right the machine with a disconcerting jerk, and off they would speed again, weaving in and out of various ambulances, lorries, and the occasional horse-drawn wagon. Aside from trains, Hailey had never traveled so fast in his life, especially not balanced half on a seat and half on a saddlebag.

Traffic grew heavier as they approached Paris, necessitating that the zouave slow down. Hailey fumbled the envelope from his jacket pocket with gloved hands and checked the hotel’s address once again. Inside was a scribbled note from Captain Ashby, dated a mere two days before, with details of their irregular mission for the French. It definitely beat being back with the battalion, laying a railway in the rain.

The zouave left him at the Hotel Lutetia with a cheery salute and more incomprehensible attempts at English, then rattled off, his scarlet trousers flapping in the wind. Hailey found his handkerchief and wiped most of the mud off his face before swathing it in his muffler, hunching his shoulders against the cold, and trudging across the hotel’s cobblestoned courtyard.

Inside wasn’t much warmer than outside. The concierge was also wrapped in a muffler, and the end of his nose looked distinctly red. He at least spoke some English. Hailey was able to make herself understood once he unbuttoned his coat to display his uniform, and pointed out the names he wanted in the register.

Meyer came down to meet him, closely followed by Daglish. They looked clean and warm and well-fed, and he was startled by a stab of jealousy. They in turn looked startled to see him. Hailey dug out the letter, bundled in with the other papers he’d brought. “Got some important news.”

Meyer and Daglish exchanged a glance. Meyer said, “You look chilled to the bone. Come on up to our room.”

Once climbing the staircase, it became evident to Hailey that the two officers were clean and he was not. It wasn’t the mud so much as the fact that he hadn’t had so much as a wash since he’d left Sister Daglish, and before that, it had been weeks since he’d had a real bath. He’d been hoping for one on leave, when he could get some privacy; maybe there’d be a chance of one before they had to leave Paris. Though there might not be time. He’d likely need to scrape the dirt off himself with a knife. Twice.

The door of their small room had barely closed behind them when Meyer asked, “What is it?”

Daglish grabbed Meyer before he could hit the floor and eased him onto the bed, where he sat staring at Hailey as if he were about to weep, but grinning, too. Daglish looked at the neatly printed list Hailey held and said, puzzled, “Is that my sister’s handwriting?”

Moonlight Mistress is out December 2009 from Harlequin Spice. In this scene, Lucilla is briefly and unexpectedly reunited with her lover.

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After Hailey was safe and cared for, Lucilla walked down the muddy path back to her quarters in one of the slapdash rear huts. She was dizzy from lack of sleep and reliving, in a near trance, the moments when Ashby had shifted from one form to the other. If only she could tell Pascal. For a few wild moments, she considered ways of sending him a letter–through the French command, perhaps, or to his relatives in Le Havre–before laughing at herself. He would not be pleased to hear from her, she was sure. He no doubt had quite a few pretty mademoiselles trying to catch his eye.

No, that was unfair; there was work to be done, and she felt sure the French army had not overlooked his usefulness. It made her feel a bit better to think of him occupied with engineering problems. She could even consider him with nostalgia.He would love knowing that werewolves truly existed. She could encode that information in a letter, perhaps; it would not be like sending a letter simply because she wanted to do so. He would wish to discuss her discovery with her, and they could–no. She really had nothing to do with all this. She was neither an officer in the army or a person with any scientific standing that an army would recognize.

…Oh, she would give anything right now for a cup of tea, heavily dosed with Irish whiskey.

When she pushed open the door to her hut and saw the light on, Pascal standing there beside her bed, at first she thought she was dreaming. In one stride, he held her by the arms. A moment later, his mouth swept down upon hers. His mustache tickled her nose. That felt real. He drew back, looked down at her as if to confirm his welcome, then kissed her again before lifting her off the dirt floor and holding her tightly against him.

Lucilla stroked her hands up and down his back. Was he thinner than he’d been? She’d never before seen him in his uniform. The pale blue didn’t really suit him, nor did the loose cut of his jacket. Of course, her own uniform added at least ten years to her, and included a silly hat and cape besides, so she supposed she couldn’t criticize.

“Lucilla,” he said. He kissed her cheek and set her on her feet. “I thought I would have to search you out.”

“How did you–“

He shrugged. “I am a spy. Not in the field,” he added, hastily. “I persuaded them that would be unwise. I have been working with data that others provide.”

“But, here–

“I missed you,” he said, with devastating simplicity. He cupped her cheek in his palm. “I had hoped you might miss me, as well.”Exhaustion and shock shattered over Lucilla’s head like a shell exploding. Before she could burst into tears, she buried her face against Pascal’s chest. She wrapped her arms around his waist and held on. “Yes,” she said, muffled against his uniform.

Moonlight Mistress is out December 2009 from Harlequin Spice. This scene depicts the first combat of World War One, as experienced by one of the secondary characters, Lieutenant Gabriel Meyer, who until this moment directed the regimental band.

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Gabriel slid from tree to tree until he reached the low wall bordering the cemetery. He stepped over, then wriggled to the road on his belly. The terrain dropped towards the canal just in front of him, and he could see. Smoke scummed the air. He smelled acrid burnt powder. Gray-uniformed men crowded the width of the bridge, firing as they advanced, struggling to climb past fallen comrades who blocked their way to the bank. He tried to count, to estimate their numbers, but kept losing track at the middle of the bridge. He couldn’t see how far the crowd of Germans stretched on the other bank. Two companies? Three? A cluster of willows on the opposite bank blocked his view. Where were Ashby and Daglish? Were they safe? He sighed in relief when he spotted Daglish’s stocky torso on the right flank. He looked to be under adequate cover, training a pair of binoculars at the opposite bank.

The men were doing well. He estimated twelve to fifteen rounds a minute, at the least, and considerably more accurate with their aim than their German opponents, even given that the Germans were exposed and moving. He crushed the thought that he, too, might have to shoot soon. He’d never killed a man. He’d never intended to. He only hoped he could manage it if the need arose.As Gabriel watched, Cawley and Lyton each fired a final round from their advance placement, then abandoned the wagon’s inadequate cover and retreated for the barricades. Cawley went down, his body jerking with the impact of two, then three bullets.

Gabriel closed his eyes for a moment, but the picture was the same when he opened them, Cawley sprawled amid the lush grass and wildflowers like a painting, bright and unreal. He didn’t move again. Lyton didn’t see, and a moment later was dragged behind a heap of sofas and thrust into a trench.

…Someone touched his elbow, and he rolled, pistol ready. Ashby halted his movement with a hand on his wrist, and Gabriel let his breath free in a rush. Trust Ashby to move like a ghost. Ashby said, loudly enough to be heard over the rifles, “You’re to hold this position.”

Ashby’s usually insouciant expression had tightened, his mouth drawn into a thin line, his face caked with dust and sweat beneath the brim of his cap. A red line streaked across his neck, the blood already crusting. He’d come within inches of being killed already. His throat too tight for words, Gabriel could only nod.Ashby grinned at him and gripped the back of his neck for a moment, a comforting squeeze that conveyed fresh energy. Then he scrambled down the road. Gabriel worked his way back to the cemetery wall and relayed their orders, then returned to his vantage point. A couple of Germans had fought free of the chaos at the foot of the bridge and were advancing at a run, bayonets leveled. Gabriel couldn’t hear individual shots amid the percussive storm of them, but the two interlopers jerked to a halt and landed short of Cawley’s body. Southey and Mason, he realized, peering up at the spire. Sure enough, he could just see the tip of a rifle protruding from the narrow arras.

Crispin hadn’t felt any fear at all as he’d led his platoon into battle, only a strange feeling of intense concentration and heightened senses. Now that the worst of the fighting was over, though, chance had left him stranded far from his company, his twisted ankle swelling inside his boot, each beat of his pulse throbbing up his whole leg. He lay surrounded by mud and metal fragments, corpses and incomplete corpses, and the shattered skeletons of trees. That was a very different thing, and he’d had to work to keep from panicking.

Meyer had arrived after about an hour, and now Crispin couldn’t stop shaking. He’d been holding together rather well when he lay in the mud alone, waiting for death. A blanket of acceptance had eventually settled over his mind: someone else would take care of his men, and either another shell would land on his head and blow him to bits, or it wouldn’t, and he would worry about survival later. Dying that way would be quick. If his legs were blown off, or an arm, he still had his pistol. He could always shoot himself before he bled to death. He thought God would forgive him suicide, if he were dying already and in terrible pain. He needn’t fear the worst, being ripped open by a bayonet, as no German would be insane enough to venture out of his trench during this kind of assault. Being trapped in a shell hole hadn’t been nearly as bad as he’d feared.

Now, though, Meyer was with him, and if he was killed, Meyer would likely be killed, too. Crispin carefully unhooked his pistol from its lanyard, reholstered it, and buttoned the flap. His hands were shaking too badly for it to be any good. “Why did you come after me? Where’s your platoon?” He heard the sound of a train rushing overhead and pressed himself deeper into the mud, his arms protecting his face. The shell exploded some distance behind them. Smoke from previous impacts drifted by, like ghosts. Crispin shuddered.

Meyer lifted his head. His spectacles were spattered with mud, his mouth wry. “I thought it was over. My boys headed back. I came to look for you.”

Probably, he’d gone looking for Crispin’s corpse. “I can take care of myself,” Crispin growled, though it wasn’t entirely true. No one could take care of themselves in the midst of a battle. You couldn’t protect yourself from a shell, not really. Crispin wasn’t sure why he was so angry. He’d never been happier in his life, at least for a few moments, than when Meyer had slipped and skidded his way down into this godforsaken hole. Perhaps it was that he’d been ready to die, finally calm about it, and then Meyer’s arrival had reminded him that he’d left something unfinished, and he would regret it for eternity.

“God damn it,” he said. Another shell whistled and he ducked again. That one had been closer. He stole a glance at Meyer, and unexpectedly met his steady blue gaze, or what he could see of it through the mud. His heart stopped. Meyer looked down, fumbled off his filthy specs with an equally filthy hand, and slid them carefully into the breast pocket of his uniform tunic. His slight squint when he looked at Crispin now bore a disturbing resemblance to a look of lustful contemplation.

Meyer said, “I’d give a hundred guineas for a hot bath right now.”

Crispin’s mind presented him with an image of Meyer’s naked form ensconced in a porcelain bath, one leg flung over the side. He closed his eyes. That made it worse. He opened them again and reflected wryly that at least it was better than contemplating his own dismemberment. “I’d give two hundred guineas for any bath,” he said. “There’s a puddle down at the bottom of this hole.”

“Let me guess. You found it with your boots.”

“My arse,” Crispin said. “Good thing my coat took most of the damp.” He rested his cheek on his arm and tried to slow down his breathing. Sometimes that helped. This time it helped for two breaths, until a Screaming Minnie tore the air, then another, then a whole host of them, smaller shells ripping their way towards inevitable destruction. Terror washed him like cold rain, then a vast numbness that he dove into gladly.